


Temptation

by out_there



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Name Changes, Temptation in the desert, Two bros hanging out in the desert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: And the tempter coming said to him: If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread. (Matthew 4:3)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 182





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Smallhobbit for betaing.

In the dark of a moonless night, two figures lurk by a grove of olive trees. Crawley isn't surprised. Hastur and Ligur could find a way to lurk in a meadow of wildflowers at midday. But they love tradition, so it's a dark, deserted midnight. Crawley has to give them points for the effect. In terms of sheer spookiness, they nailed it.

"Hail, Satan," Ligur says, his eyes glowing the dark red of old blood.

"Hail, Satan," Hastur says, skin pale as a corpse and his eyes like bottomless wells.

"Yeah, hail and well met," Crawley says, flicking his hand in a loose interpretation of the current Roman salute. "Are we here to recount the evil deeds of the day?"

Every so often, there's a tourist from hell, a demon who wants to see how Crawley damns so many souls (at least according to his reports). There's always a bit of temptation, a soul or two damned, and Crawley fruitlessly tries explaining how small sins build up over time. He usually spends most of the trip pointing out that encouraging a human to go on a homicidal rampage is entertaining but doesn't result in many damned souls. (Standing there watching humans stab and slash at each other isn't his idea of a good time, but those demons from Downstairs are always keen to see the spectacle. So Crawley has to watch it, because Hell doesn’t take kindly to demons that turn away from the blood splatter.)

Occasionally, he gets visitors confirming the details of his reports but those are usually Downstairs paper-pushers, not Dukes of Hell. Dukes like Ligur and Hastur are above that sort of petty bureaucracy. If they thought he was lying on his reports, they'd tear strips off him -- literally -- but they wouldn't bother checking on him first.

"You, Crawley," Ligur says, eyes narrowed and growing darker, "have always tempted the humans."

"No death. No murder. No torture," Hastur says as if it's lack of personality on Crawley's part. "No blood spilled."

"Not directly." Crawley is once again thankful that he was assigned to Earth. Thinking like this… well, let's just say that listening to constant screaming is not his idea of a good day. "But there has been a lot of blood in the arenas. As the humans watched on, no less, cheering death and dismemberment as a good day's entertainment. That’s a lot of souls closer to damnation."

In the dark of the night, Ligur's teeth look unnaturally sharp. For a demon, that's saying something. "We have an assignment for you."

Hastur sneers. "One suited to your skills."

"You will go into the desert and you will tempt Him."

"Tempt him?" Crawley asks.

"Yes."

"Tempt who?"

"Him," Hastur replies.

"Yes, I got that bit," Crawley says, and hunches down when Ligur glares at him. Hell is very keen on everyone knowing their place, and as far as the dukes are concerned, Crawley's place is slithering around on the ground and not talking back to his superiors. "I'm happy to tempt, always happy to damn a few more souls, but I don't understand. Who am I supposed to tempt?"

"The Son of God," Hastur says slowly.

"Already? But I thought we had another few centuries at least."

"He has been on Earth for nearly thirty years." Ligur stares at him; Crawley resists the urge to smile reassuringly. Demons do not find a smile reassuring. "You haven't felt it? The holiness from Jerusalem?"

"Well, I've been in other areas of the empire. Must be a localised effect."

***

"Go out to the desert, they said," Crawley mutters under his breath as he passes a rock that looks like the last dozen rocks he'd walked over. He'd wanted to fly but apparently, that would be too obvious. And then his stupid camel ran away after the third day. "It's the Son of God. He'll be easy to find. Just look for the ministering angels."

That's why he shouldn't fly. The Son of God meditating in the desert includes archangels watching over him. Hell's big plan was for Crawley to sneak past a garrison of angels and tempt God's son to sin, and thereby score points so Lucifer could gloat to Upstairs.

If anyone had asked Crawley -- not that anyone did -- he'd ask why. The basic plan was the Son of God on Earth and a second chance at humanity being forgiven for that original bite of the apple, all to make it easier for souls to go to Heaven. To Crawley, it sounds like Heaven's trying to find an easy way to inflate their numbers.

Which Crawley can appreciate in principle -- if you're losing the game, bend the rules -- but he'd appreciate it more if it didn't leave him in the desert, watching the skies for big flapping angel wings.

In typical fashion, no one is quite sure what he's supposed to do. He's been tasked with sowing temptation and doubt, but what does that mean for the Son of God? From the way Hastur sneered, no one Downstairs expects Crawley will manage any actual evil in this endeavour.

So as long as he shows up, it doesn't matter what he does. He can say he tried, Downstairs can say it was all part of the Great Plan, and Upstairs will claim it as a great victory.

There's no possible way to fail. Crawley likes jobs like that. Or he would, if he could be sure he's walking in the right direction.

***

It takes another four days before Crawley actually sees an angel. It's Uriel, swooping through the skies like the world's biggest eagle, gold-flecked wings gliding through the air.

At least it's not Michael, who beheaded him on general principle last time Crawley ran into the archangel. Or Sandalphon, who nearly crushed Crawley under a falling temple in Gomorrah. Uriel's never left him waiting in queues in Hell to submit triplicate paperwork to justify a discorporation.

(Luckily those forms accept Act of God or Act of Angel as one of the few valid reasons for discorporation. The time Crawley was so drunk that he fell, knocked himself unconscious and drowned in the public baths, he had to claim an angel pushed him in.)

As pointless as this assignment is, it does have a deadline. Crawley can't afford to spend weeks waiting for repairs to his body, so he's going to avoid discorporation. Even if he has to give up a little dignity to do so.

Crawley shifts into his snake form and slithers across the sand. It's sunwarm against his underbelly, a soft rasp as he moves, but at least this way the angels won't be looking for him.

***

When Crawley finally finds the Messiah, he's sitting in the shade of a rock, eyes closed against the desert winds. He doesn't make much of a first impression. Good looking enough for the humans around here -- dark hair, golden skin, not too pockmarked -- but there's no air of the divine to him. He's just a man in a coarse tunic, playing with the seeds in his left hand.

Crawley slithers to the edge of rock's shadow. He's within striking distance of the man's foot when dark eyes open and look straight at him. The eyes are knowing and kind, an all encompassing kindness that reminds Crawley of Aziraphale. Now he sees echoes of God in the young man.

The Messiah stares at Crawley but doesn't move his foot away. "Who are you?" he asks gently, as if it's normal for humans to talk to animals and expect a reply.

Crawley rises up like a cobra. "Crawley."

The son of God nods. "And why are you here, Crawley?"

To make trouble, Crawley thinks. That's all he's ever done. "Hell sent me here to tempt you."

"How are you supposed to tempt me?"

"They didn't say," Crawley replies honestly. He lowers himself back to the ground.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," the Messiah says, with a smile that says they both know Crawley won't succeed.

Crawley remembers the halls of Heaven. He remembers garrisons of angels convinced of their unshakeable divinity. He remembers God's distant compassion and untouchable grace. The holiest creatures are usually the least likeable, but he almost likes the Messiah.

Especially when he offers to share a calfskin of tepid water, tipping it into a small bowl for Crawley to drink. Even a snake appreciates water in the desert.

***

"Ssso, what ssshould I call you?" Crawley asks after they've spent a silent hour watching the shadows stretch across the dunes. Crawley is coldblooded; he's been enjoying the dry air and hot sunshine.

The Messiah, the Christ, the King of kings and Lord of lords, the Prince of Peace and Firstborn over all Creation says, "Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth."

"And who are you?"

"A carpenter's son."

Crawley stares at him. As a snake, he can stare for a long time without blinking. The Messiah doesn't flinch.

"You know you're more than that," Crawley says.

Jesus closes his eyes. He seems remarkably mortal. "I will be. But for the past thirty years, I've been the son of a carpenter. That's what I am now."

If Crawley had shoulders, he'd shrug. As a snake, shrugging is impossible.

"Are you comfortable like that?" Jesus asks.

Crawley doesn't spend much time as a snake. There's too many feet and hooves on Earth these days. "It's tradition. Tempting humans, crawling across the ground, that's how they expect it to be done."

"Do you want to be a snake?"

It's not a question anyone's ever asked him. The fallen were cast down from Heaven as animals. Most demons recovered some of their angelic forms, but no demon is without some sign of their damnation. He never asked to be a snake; but he never asked to be an angel or a demon either.

Crawley had wanted to understand. Lucifer had some good questions, and Crawley wondered why God wouldn't give them a clear answer. He'd been hanging around with Lucifer's followers, trying to talk it through, trying to find someone who could explain more than "because Lucifer said so" -- which to Crawley was no better than "because God's will is ineffable" -- and they'd been walking as they went, heading for the stairs of Heaven. 

Crawley remembers standing at the mezzanine, surprised that he'd already walked down a few flights as they talked, and hearing the doors of Heaven slam shut. He'd felt them lock. With nowhere else to go, he followed the crowd, sauntering downwards as if he'd meant to.

The archangels seem to be keeping a loose perimeter around him, guarding the Messiah like he's the new garden of Eden. Like the garden, they're all watching outwards. It's unlikely they'll look for him here, and even if they do -- even if they discorporate him and send him back to Hell, Crawley can claim he tried and failed to tempt the Messiah. Another temptation to tick off the to do list at Head Office.

Crawley shifts back to a man-shaped being. "I prefer having thumbs," Crawley says and then miracles himself a crisp red apple to hold. It's not a cliche, it's a classic. "Want a bite?"

Any of the archangels would glare and smite him. Aziraphale would frown and pretend to be disapproving, but if he was sure no one was watching, he might taste it. The Messiah smiles and says, "No, but I appreciate the offer."

***

The Messiah is the quiet type, happy enough to watch the sand dunes for hours. Crawley miracles himself up a few cushions and a pair of tinted glasses and waits it out.

Jesus is fasting, nothing but unleavened bread and water, but Crawley's never particularly liked the flat breads. He miracles up a fresh, thick loaf sprinkled with seeds, and then some goat's cheese and ripe tomatoes. Like all miracled food, it tastes like the memory of a good meal, one step removed from what food should be. But it's better than flat, stale bread.

He raises an eyebrow at the Messiah. "Want some?"

Jesus turns his gaze away from the platter. "I gave my word to God that I would use this time to fast and think."

"So?"

"So a covenant with God must be kept, as He keeps His covenants."

Crawley pops a red tomato into his mouth. He knows the value of God's promises. He remembers the rainbow. True, they haven't needed another arc, but humans have still been killed in floods since then. Promises, like prophecies, are tricky things: they don't always mean what they say. "Keep the spirit of the promise. It's only bread. You can still think."

"I don't think the spirit of the promise includes accepting food from devils," Jesus says wryly.

"Then miracle some up yourself. Never touched by demon hands."

The Messiah looks surprised. "I wouldn't know how."

"You're divine, you've got the power." Crawley takes a closer look at the Son of God, at the divinity hidden beneath layers of humanity. "Maybe start with something smaller. Don't create the atoms, change them. Turn a rock into a loaf."

Jesus still looks confused, so Crawley sighs and picks up a stone. "Like this," he says, moving and transforming the atoms as slowly as he can, leaving a tiny loaf of bread lying in his palm.

The Messiah picks up a large pebble and tries the same thing, face crumpled in concentration. He doesn't end up with bread so much as a strangely soft rock.

"Keep trying," Crawley says, trying to be encouraging. "You'll master it eventually."

***

When night falls, the desert is cold. Crawley miracles himself a thicker cloak, huddling down in the layers. He amuses himself with tiny flicks of magic, sending the various soft rocks and hard lumps of bread out into the desert. The Messiah's made progress but it's far from edible.

While the Messiah snores like pneumatic donkey, Crawley watches the stars move across the black sky. Out here, the stars are bright and clear, the galaxy spinning around them, the universe stretching out and constantly growing. A human might only see pricks of light, but Crawley sees stars and gas giants, nebulae and moons, belts of ice and debris. He remembers making them, the magic flowing from his edges and sparking into light and heat and mass.

Angels are not born or grown; they're made whole and complete. He had been made with the knowledge of creation. No one had told him which stars to create or how to do it; he'd been made knowing that. But humans, even those shining with divine power, have to learn. Everything in life has to be learned. How to walk, how to talk, how to fend for themselves and how to know God.

They step out in ignorance and figure it out as they go. It's quite amazing, if you ask Crawley.

Not that anyone would ask him. Not that he'd tell his superiors if they ever did. Most demons don't like humanity. They're still holding a grudge over not being God's favourites any more.

Not that Heaven seems to value humans either. Most of the archangels look at humanity like a keen gardener spotting a weed in her lawn. The only exception Crawley knows is Aziraphale, an angel who helped Eve and Adam leave the garden, who worried that they'd be cold and frightened. An angel who gave away a holy weapon so the humans would be warm.

He's an odd one, that angel.

***

The next morning, the Messiah continues to attempt to create bread. At this point, Crawley's wondering if it might have been better to miracle up an oven and some grain. It might have been quicker.

"Crawley is an unusual name," the Messiah says, creating a small loaf of bread that drops to the desert floor with a heavy thunk. Right shape, though, so that's an improvement. "How did you come by it?"

"Same as anyone else. Someone gave it to me." God had stripped them of their names, and Lucifer had declared new ones for every fallen angel. Crawley had been at the back of the group, one of millions, and even an angel's mouth only knows so many sounds. Crawley's not an especially demonic sounding name, but it works well enough. "Who says it's unusual? Could be a very common name for a demon."

"It could be," Jesus allows. "I haven't met any other demons."

"Probably for the best. You wouldn't call them great company." Crawley stands up, but there really isn't anywhere he can wander towards without looking like he's pacing. He settles for walking around the rock, circling the Messiah. "Forty days, huh? You're really planning to sit here for the entire time?"

"I want to think on what God has told me."

"Heard the voice of God, did you?" Crawley wants to ask: did she actually speak to you? Did she remember that there are creatures on this planet, worshipping and crying out her name? 

"As much as we all do, when we listen."

Humans are terrible at this. Usually, they hear Megatron and truly believe he's God. "Trust me, I've been listening for years. That isn't God speaking."

***

"Are you really going to spend a month staring at the same sand dune?" Crawley looks over his shoulder at the Messiah. An hour ago he was sitting in the same position -- legs straight in front of him, hands folded gently on his lap -- staring at the same sand dune. Honestly, all this quiet meditation is deathly dull.

Jesus gives him an easy smile. There's nothing but warmth in his dark eyes. "You don't have to stay."

"You can bet Downstairs will be watching this one. If I bugger off early, they'll know." Crawley stands up, brushing the sand from his dark linen robes. "Look, I'm here to tempt you to give up your faith, turn your back on humanity, renounce your God, right?"

The Messiah's expression is a mix of amusement and kindness and divinity, and for a moment, Crawley thinks of Aziraphale. "That seems to be your task."

"No one said it had to be here," Crawley says, putting a little extra temptation into the words. "We could go somewhere with running water. Let me show you the world, and if you're not tempted, I'll bring you straight back."

"All the kingdoms of Earth are one in the eyes of Heaven."

"If they're all one, then there's no harm having a little look around, right?" Crawley holds a hand out to the Messiah, hoping he'll get to his feet and they can find somewhere selling wine. "We'll have a look, I'll give you the spiel and if you're not tempted, I'll bring you right back."

Jesus watches him for a long moment, and then clasps Crawley's arm and gets to his feet. "Show me."

***

Burrowing through the earth is Crawley's least favourite way to travel. Honestly, it's worse than horses and camels combined. It's dark and dull and despite demonic powers, he always ends up with dirt under his robes. But he's not going to fly while archangels are circling the skies, and walking out of the desert with the Messiah is probably going to draw the wrong kind of attention.

He takes them to Athens first, to a small tavern with a view of the Acropolis. He wants a glass of wine and a nice view, while the Messiah sits and thinks. "Want anything?"

"Water, thank you." Jesus sits beside him, the pair of them looking like dusty travellers but Crawley's gold spends easily enough. He doesn't say anything, and Crawley finds himself talking about the temples rising in front of them, the heathen gods and their stories of petty jealousy and anger.

In Babylon, they wander through astounding gardens and curliqued architecture, but Crawley carefully avoids the city's library, just in case. In China, they visit the Minjiang River and Crawley explains the amazing irrigation system while the Messiah seems more impressed by the stretch of water and lush greenery. On a whim, Crawley leads them to the snow-covered mountains, so high no human has ever stood there.

The wind whips around them, and Crawley uses a little demonic miracle to soften the chill. He's supposed to tempt the Messiah, not discorporate him. "Amazing, isn't it?" Crawley says, waving a hand at the craggy peaks stretching out below them in all directions.

Jesus looks out across the vista, as if memorising a sight he'll never see again. "Yes," he says simply, "it is."

"You know," Crawley says, shrugging, "you could rule it all. You have the power."

Dark eyes turn to Crawley, kind and far too knowing. "And your power? Could you not rule over all the lands of man?"

Crawley snorts out a laugh. "Hell has definite opinions about demons who get above their station. Cutting you down to size can be rather literal." 

The wind continues to tug at their hair and their clothing. Crawley tucks his braid away and hides within the hood of his cloak. The Messiah remains silent and watchful.

"It won't be easy," Crawley says quietly. He almost hopes the wind takes the words before they're heard. "Our side only has rumours about how this will end for you, but it won't be pretty. And it won't be kind. Your parent isn't a forgiving sort."

"I have faith. I trust in my father's plans."

"Trust?" Crawley scoffs. "Trust? You trust Upstairs so much, take another few steps. Go on, step off the edge and see who shows up to save you."

"You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test," Jesus quotes back archly. "You can't prove faith. You can only believe."

Crawley doesn't know anything for certain. He's only heard whispers and rumours, but everyone knows the Messiah will be sacrificed to buy humanity another chance. To make it easier for Heaven to collect souls. He does know angels; they never cry over how their martyrs suffer on Earth. "You could make a different choice."

"As could you." For a moment, there's nothing dark in the Messiah's eyes. For a moment, they shine as bright as Heaven, as the divine, something so much larger and older than this universe. "We choose what we are bound by, Crawley. We choose what to bind ourselves to."

"Not how it works for demons. Or angels." Crawley should know. One bad decision, and it was sulfur and hellfire. "We get orders."

"Perhaps in time you will see there are choices." The Messiah turns, looking out across the jagged horizon and sharp blue sky. When he glances back at Crawley, it's the face of a young man again. "Should we return?"

***

After those icy mountains, the heat of the desert feels good on Crawley's skin. He stretches in the sunshine, trying to brush lingering dirt and sand out of his robes. "Sure I can't make you reconsider? Renounce God, worship Satan, rule the Earth?" Crawley shakes his sleeves out, frowning at the dirt caught in his cuffs.

"No," the Messiah says gently. He reaches forward and unexpectedly clasps Crawley's hand between his. "I hope you'll remember what I've said as clearly as I will remember your words."

Crawley pulls his hand back. "How the Snake of Eden failed to tempt you?"

"How even a demon named by Lucifer himself could speak from compassion."

"Oi," Crawley objects quickly. "I did no such thing. I showed you earthly riches and promised you power. Don't pretend it was anything different."

"If that is how you wish the story to be told," Jesus says, as if he's somehow indulging Crawley, "then that is how I shall tell it."

***

Afterwards, there's talk of a commendation from Downstairs, even though Crawley didn't technically succeed. He does love an assignment where showing up is enough to warrant a reward.

On the official report, Crawley embellishes a little: talks of taunting the starving man with food until his stomach rumbled, showing him riches beyond his imaginings and promising that he could rule all the kingdoms of Earth. He turns it into the sort of story Hastur and Ligur would appreciate. There's lots of faff about the glory of Hell and Satan, met by overblown denials and priggish holiness from the Messiah. Everyone exaggerates on reports.

Crawley signs his name in the human fashion, inked letters rather his own burning sigil, and then he stops. Stares at the letters on the scroll and the verb hiding in his name. To crawl, to creep, to slither. He remembers the Messiah knowing Lucifer had named him, the talk of unseen choices. Carefully and purposefully, he lifts his quill and changes a letter.

Crowley reads it out loud and likes the sound of it.


End file.
